Little fragments of Jay Wulf were revealing themselves to his attention, as though in a queue, all waiting to come into play at their intended time. The pigmentation, the strange pendant hung from his neck, the hair shaved at the sides and long at the top. The array of muscles that shone tan and red and purple in the light. The gathered weight in his loins. The holster on his belt. And what does that tell me? It tells me I’m the kind of man who is used to carrying a gun. He’d never shot a gun before. Hell, he’d never even handled one. But now he clutched it with undeniable familiarity, the
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